Final Assault (5 page)

"Fleet doesn't tell all its secrets, Bill," said S'Rel with a shrug. "No government does, as you well know."

"Bullshit, buddy," said Sutherland, standing. "While you were supervising the cleanup of our Amazon village, I took two squads on a last sweep of the area. Just for the hell of it, I decided to have another look at that anaconda. And guess what? It must have just been killed before I shot it—crushed. What I saw and reacted to were its death throes."

"So?" said the K'Ronarin.

"So what are you, S'Rel?" continued Sutherland calmly. "Not human, certainly. Not a S'Cotar or the alarms would be ringing. That leaves only one known possibility."

S'Rel leaped the desk—an effortless, standing broad jump, done with only a slight flexing of the knees, the landing soft and silent. "An AI, right, Bill?" he said as Sutherland pressed against the glass wall, face as white as the ceiling tiles.

"God deliver us from monsters," whispered the CIA director.

Laughing, S'Rel stepped back a pace. "You're a paunchy, middle-aged bureaucrat, Sutherland," he said. "But you have style and you have guts." He held out his hand. "Welcome to the Revolt."

"Well, we've boarded her," said S'Tat as
Repulse
settled onto the steel surface of the battleglobe. Two miles long and of proportional length and breadth, the K'Ronarin ship was just another machine on the bleak, airless surface of the machine fortress: fusion batteries with cannon half the cruiser's length, ugly black snouts pointing toward the shimmering blue of the shield; instrument pods and the domes of missile turrets, the largest of them the height of
Repulse,
interspacing the fusion batteries in row after serried row all the way to the horizon.

"Nice place," said Captain P'Qal, watching the outside scan move across the bridge's main screen. "That, I gather, is the operations tower," he said, as the scan stopped, holding on the great black structure dwarfing the hull structures. Square and windowless, it seemed almost to touch the shield.

"What's that on the top?" said S'Tat, frowning as she zoomed the scan. A stiff duraplast flag leaped into focus—silver and black, with a single golden dagger lying horizontally in its middle. "That looks familiar," she said uncertainly.

"It's the battle flag of our Confederation," said P'Qal. "Find out if they're sending someone to get us, or if we have to walk. And tell S'Yatan to maintain position."

They sent someone to get them: K'Raoda. He arrived in a transit tube that extended its serpentine self from the sheer wall of the tower to the cruiser's emergency bridge access. "Sorry about this," he said, leading P'Qal and S'Yatan through the luminescent green tube. "There're selective atmospheric controls, but they took hits in the fighting —we've been busy repairing the fusion batteries and power leads."

P'Qal shook his head, not sure which had impressed him more about K'Raoda—the boyish features and easy grin or the crimson-hung silver Valor Medal around the Commander's neck. The captain shook his head. "Amazing."

A few moments later they entered the tower and began trudging up a broad circular ramp, passing men and women in K'Ronarin uniform who nodded hastily and hurried by, distracted, or ignored the newcomers, intent on battle repairs.

Every level bore signs of recent combat: walls and floors gouged by the black gashes of blaster hits, shattered instrument alcoves, and here and there, missed in the hurried cleanup, the shattered remains of what must have been complex mobile machinery—AIs? wondered P'Qal. He was about to ask when they topped the ramp and reached the heart of the battleglobe, the bridge of the operations tower.

The armored double doors that had once guarded the bridge were all but gone—a perfectly symmetrical hole having devoured most of the battlesteel. "Glad we missed this fight, Number One," said P'Qal as they followed K'Raoda through the blast hole and onto a walkway that circled the bridge.

They stood looking out over a great round room, consoles everywhere, rimmed by armor glass with a view of the bleak surface of the battleglobe and
Repulse,
nestled between those massive fusion batteries. About fifty crew manned the consoles, P'Qal guessed. He leaned over the railing for a better look.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you, Captain," said a new voice. "It's pretty weak in places."

P'Qal stepped back and turned toward the speaker. Wiry-framed, about forty-five, with a receding hairline and dark, intelligent eyes, a man wearing the insignia of a colonel of Fleet Counterintelligence stepped down from the access ladder to the left of the doorway. "Welcome to
Devastator,
Captain, Commander. My name's R'Gal."

P'Qal's communicator beeped. "Yes?" he said, rising from his chair and moving back a few meters.

"There's a Fleet omega-class shuttle coming toward you from Terra," reported Captain S'Yatan. "IDs as Embassy craft."

"We're expecting it," said P'Qal. "Perhaps we can have a real conversation when it gets here—we've been sipping t'ata and listening to Colonel R'Gal's anecdotes since we arrived." He glanced at R'Gal, chatting quietly with S'Tat. High and musical, the laugh rang faintly from the steel walls of R'Gal's quarters.

"Everything all right?" said S'Yatan.

"Knives at our throats and tinglers on our gonads," said P'Qal.

"Very well. Will check back as arranged."

P'Qal pocketed his communicator and returned to his chair. "Shuttle coming in from Terra," he said as R'Gal and S'Tat looked at him. "Maybe then you'll tell us what you're doing here. If not..."

R'Gal held up a hand. "I know. You'll have to arrest us all and take our vessel in tow." He said it straight-faced. "Be assured, Captain, we're not here to see Ginza at night.

"More t'ata, Commander?"

Designed and built by AIs, the only facilities for humans on board
Devastator
were as prisoners, eighteen levels beneath the operations tower. The sleeping quarters were small and the bathrooms smaller. The lavatory sinks had no plugs and gave only reluctantly of a small flow of tepid water, something John cursed each time he tried to shave, as he was doing now.

"Pssst. Harrison."

But for the invention of the safety razor, John would probably have slit his own throat. The appearance of a six-foot, four legged green insectoid behind one in the bathroom tends to evoke a violent response. As it was, the Terran shrieked and whirled, razor
en garde.

"You look absurd," said Guan-Sharick. "A hairy, towel-clad primate threatening a teleki-netic lifeform with a foam-tipped shaver." The insectoid's form shimmered and vanished, replaced by that of a jumpsuit-clad blonde, seated on the toilet. "That better?" said Guan-Sharick.

John glared at the transmute. "I thought you went with
Implacable
when we parted, back in the Ghost Quadrant."

"Guess again," said the blonde.

"And why the green bug display? I thought it was finally resolved that you were human?"

"I don't think it was ever said that I was human," said Guan-Sharick. "What was was that I'm not a biofab."

The Terran gestured imperiously with the razor. "Out."

They stepped into the living quarters. Cutting torches and some clever use of available materials had converted five small cells into a reasonably commodious, sparsely furnished two-room suite.

"The lovely Zahava not at home?" said the transmute, peering through the doorway into the living room.

"No," said John, reaching for his pants. "Do you mind?"

"Idiocy," said the blonde, turning away from him.

"Okay," said Harrison after a moment, tucking in his shirt. "What do you want?"

The blonde turned. "You know we've entered the Terran system?"

"So? We're not landing."

"R'Gal needs the cooperation of the insystem commander to access the portal to the AI universe."

John nodded.

"I'm confident he'll get it, one way or the other," said the transmute, sitting down on the double bed. "Then this ship has to go through an intervening universe to reach the AI empire."

"So what?" said the Terran. "It's just a matter of recalibrating the portal device and proceeding on to our objective—isn't it?" he added, as the blonde shook her head.

"At that point, the portal device will have exhausted its potential," said Guan-Sharick.

"It will require recharging from the available resources of that intervening universe. Specifically, at least one ton of plutonium 239."

"That's a weapons-grade isotope," said John, sinking into the room's sole armchair. "The alternate Terra, Terra Two, is a technological backwater—they're still suffering the effects of World War II. There's only a limited nuclear arsenal, most of it in German hands."

"Not anymore," said Guan-Sharick. "Since you were last there, the American urban guerrillas—the gangers—have begun creating an arsenal of nuclear weapons in the Colorado Rockies. At the moment, they have more plutonium than they have bombs, thanks to years of pilfering from German nuclear plants. They have, in fact, about half a ton. The Fourth Reich has about another half a ton, exclusive of deployed weapons." The blue-green eyes looked toward the ceiling. "This mission requires someone who can obtain both stockpiles for its use."

John was on his feet. "No one is sending me back to that hellhole again!"

"Nothing like the last time," said the transmute, holding up a slender hand. "Just obtain a consensus ..."

"Between the gangers and the Reich?!"

". . . and we can get on with the mission."

"Why are you telling me this and not R'Gal?"

"R'Gal has other problems at the moment.

And you leave as soon as we enter the universe of Terra Two—courtesy of me."

Guan-Sharick was gone, only to reappear an instant later. "You and Zahava might want to go to the bridge. An old friend of yours just arrived.

"See you."

"Sit," ordered the
admiral. D'Trelna sat.

They were in the commandant's office, high atop the Tower, with a view of the cityscape at night through the armorglass. Admiral L'Guan took the commandant's chair, behind the big traq-wood desk. "Why the hell did you come back?" he demanded. "Didn't you know
Implacable
had been declared a corsair vessel?"

"Sir," said D'Trelna, "I came back hoping to expose ..."

L'Guan held up a hand. "I think I know most of what you want to say. Admiral S'Gan's report of your expedition into Quadrant Blue Nine was received, along with reports detailing the treachery of Combine T'Lan, the demise of the corsair K'Tran and your and the mindslavers' defeat of the AI vanguard." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Once received, these reports were suppressed by treasonous officers within FleetOps—human officers in the pay of Combine T'Lan. Said officers will soon be fighting for their lives beside the former occupant of this office."

Smart money says they'll lose, thought D'Trelna.

"A duplicate copy of S'Gan's report found its way to my office, but too late to prevent
Implacable
from being corsair-listed by those same officers.

"The Council is in disarray, the only strong member being the chair, D'Assan. I believe him to be in the pay of the AIs of Combine T'Lan."

"Worse," said the commodore. "He loves, worships and reveres them."

L'Guan snorted. "Fool. He'll be the first to go if they win.

"Fleet," he continued, "is scattered throughout the Confederation on urgent missions of relief and rescue. The S'Cotar occupation left us with half a hundred crippled planets, populated by the brainwiped survivors of slave-labor factories. Crops disrupted, transport scattered or destroyed. I have a handful of effective ships in home system and am sure of the loyalty of only one FleetOps officer." L'Guan touched his breast. "Of course, all these cares may be taken from me—D'Assan's moving to have me replaced or sent up to Line as duty officer."

"An honorable position," said D'Trelna.

"More an honorary one, designed for fractious senior officers nearing retirement. One may not tell Line what to do, only advise it—not the most fulfilling duty for someone who's been commanding starships much of his life.

"Anyway," continued the admiral, "the Council's meeting all night on my fate. It should be resolved by dawn." He looked out the window. The first hint of dawn could be seen, outlining the rough hills of the western desert.

He turned back to D'Trelna. "S'Gan's final report said you were going to try to take an AI battleglobe. Did you?"

D'Trelna nodded. "Yes, sir. It's on its way to the AI Empire, on an urgent mission of confusion and destruction. R'Gal thinks he can foment a revolt."

"Luck to him—if he even gets there. As for us, your report said we're about to be attacked by some ten thousand battleglobes. What's between them and here?"

"In Quadrant Blue Nine we were able to enlist the cooperation of a flotilla of mindslavers ..."

The admiral shook his head. "I know—it was in the report—horrors out of the Empire's darkest past. Part human, part machine, totally mad. They hate us, D'Trelna.